


A Companion In Solitude

by Hightress



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blackwatch Jesse McCree, Casual Hanzo Shimada, Deadlock Gang, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Okami Hanzo Shimada, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 22:56:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20415664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hightress/pseuds/Hightress
Summary: In which Hanzo spends too much time in the woods and can't seem to forget the horribly-dressed cowboy that keeps flirting with him.





	A Companion In Solitude

The wood cracked under his feet, the sound echoing too loudly considering the one who made it. His childhood masters would've lost their minds if they knew, but again, maybe not.

A tactless sound was nothing compared to the way he had disgraced them before.

Not that it mattered when one wondered the woods, covered in furs and dirt, all family customs left in the past, as if part of a completely different existence. 

Another noise emerged in the stillness of the forest, this time not made by the young Shimada. His face darkened, his hand instinctively moving to his weapon - a bow. The roughness of the wood, altogether with the weight of a bone, made it still feel foreign in Hanzo's hands, but his lessons left him with enough of his skill to bring it close to its maximum potential. 

The second the noise echoed again, his arrow already left the bow, and, with a precision unmatched by any other hunter in those woods, he struck the target - a lone doe, unsuspecting of its killer. 

Its cries reached his covered ears, but his bitter soul did little to react to the animal's agony. He sent two more arrows, even more precise than the first had been, and ceased the doe's pain, leaving it silent forever. 

The archer refused to dwell too much on his violent act. His hunger would be tamed that night. It was the only thing that mattered. 

Sometimes survival mattered more than guilt. He learned that long before. 

Took the body of the doe over one of his shoulders and kept moving. He had a long way to go before he reached his camping spot. And soon the sun would go down, leaving him at a disadvantage. He had no time to waste. 

When there was only a mile left until the camp he had built, Hanzo heard another noise. This time something new, different, which shouldn't have existed close to the wildness of the forest, but one he knew way too well. 

Gunshots. 

It had been months since the last time he had dealt with any gun. Years since he had wielded one himself, even if just for a mere moment. 

Hanzo hated it. Always did. Too industrial, lacking any sense of art and beauty. For him, there had to be an element of elegance even in a violent act. 

There was nothing beautiful or elegant about bullets. 

Any sound in the proximity of the forest had a tale worth telling behind it. And judging from the sea of colourful curses following the gunshot noises, if he didn't hurry, there would be no-one to tell this one. 

Hanzo dropped the doe, memorizing the area with two strategic looks, and ran in the direction the curses came from, his bow once again in his hand. His eyes narrowed as the bullets seemed to hit again and again someone's flesh, the images fresh in his mind, as if he was there, in the middle of the action. 

But, as he reached the end of the trees, getting to a mountain road rarely touched by men, he caught sight of something unusual, far from his explanation. Far from anything his brain could've ever created. 

He counted nine people, eight of which dressed fully in grey, matching jackets thrown over their backs decorated by a large symbol. Each carried multiple weapons, from daggers to revolvers and even shotguns, their faces painted by anger and... 

And pain. 

Because the ninth, a huge contrasting energy, stood high above them. A confident smile was taking over his features, one hand wrapped around a gun - the position loose enough to show familiarity with the weapon, yet tight enough to go back to a fury of attacks in a split second - while the other was placed in front of his mouth, holding a cigar. 

As if the battle itself wasn't exciting enough on its own and he needed an extra stimulant. 

The entire gesture was quite primitive, for a lack of a better word. Cheapened the entire scene, turning the man's victory into a mockery. 

Not that his entire attire was helping much either - an infuriating hat placed proudly on top of a brown mess while a large layered black suit covered his shoulders and a large portion of his upper body. It was disastrous. 

The man didn't look like a warrior. He seemed like a joke, some sort of mascot. A character in a child's play. Which was a pity because, as far as Hanzo could tell, underneath that horrific costume stood solid muscle. 

And yet, he had been the winner of that brawl. He was the one that bested eight others. 

"Ain't got time for folks like you right now," said the man, lowering his body over one of his defeated opponents. "If you wanted some good ol' target practice, you should've chosen someone to match your skills, fellas. Not me."

The man's words weren't threatening - that surprised Hanzo greatly - and neither was his tone. If anything, his voice was warm, rich in flavour, theatrical and over the top. 

If Hanzo didn't know better, he would've compared his voice to honey. But that was a stupid thought. 

The man probably used it to mock the others or to lower their expectations when it came to his fighting skills. Nobody feared a comically dressed warrior with a soft tone. It had to be some sort of technique. It had to. Otherwise, Hanzo had no other explanation for the scene in front of him.

The one whose body was underneath the ninth's stare answered in the only way his probably limited vocabulary knew how to deal with real life - by narrowing his eyes and spitting in the other's face. 

"Eat shit, you Deadlock reject." 

Instead of losing his composure, the man only lowered his eyes to a dark mark tattooed across his own arm for a moment, moving his fingers over the cigar in his hand as if in deep thought, before shoving it in his mouth. He didn't even acknowledge the drops of spit falling down his cheek.

"Deadlock, huh? That's what all of this was about?" The cigar muffled the sound slightly, but his words stayed clear enough to get their meaning across. 

With his newly freed hand, he grabbed the other's dirty shirt, using his strength to lift his opponent from the ground to a rather impressive height. Hanzo's eyes stayed on the man's muscles during the action. 

"Not bad," he noted appreciatively, the words nothing more than a whisper. Such built was worth remarking. It spoke of years of training, transforming one's body in a weapon, without turning it into an exaggerated sight. 

The one held against his will moved his legs, trying in vain to kick the other in any area he could reach. He failed, miserably so, his opponent skilled enough to predict his intentions. 

"Haven't been part of that gang of lunatics for a long time now. So stop wasting your energy or mine based on some outdated intel." He dropped the man to the ground, focusing instead on making a show out of reloading his gun. "Let me tell you a little something, from one nice guy to a bunch of outlaws desperate for action. Some things are better left in the past. This thing," he said, pointing with the weapon to his arm "is one of those. One day I'll make sure to burn it. But that ain't today." 

He fired the gun twice, each making his grey-clothed adversaries flinch. None of them dared to move just yet. Nobody dared to speak up. 

"If nobody else has any smart comments to spare, I suggest you leave. Run, before I lose my patience and decide to put even more holes in some of you. This time... Somewhere that's actually vital."

The darker edge at the end had been crucial. It was more than a threat, it also spoke volumes of the man's skill. 

It seemed like the others picked up the hidden meaning as well, guessing from how wide their eyes ended up. The didn't wait for a second warning. All of them did their best to get away - some crawling their bodies through dust and mud, some getting up, wrapping a hand around a bloodied wound from the start of the fight, and ran as fast as their bodies allowed. 

Only one of them dared to open their mouth, but only after they got far enough to feel safe. A deceitful feeling, Hanzo was sure of it. 

"No matter what you claim, you're still Deadlock scum."

The shout was followed instantly by a loud shot, barely missing his legs, falling right between them. Another signal shot. Another alarm for those fools. 

It had been enough to scare them off permanently. Took them seconds to leave the line of sight, losing themselves in the forest. None of them saw Hanzo, but again, he didn't want to be seen. 

"Been called worse," the man shouted in return, once it became clear that they wouldn't change their minds about leaving. "Say 'hi' to Ashe for me."

Hanzo didn't know who that Ashe was. Or even what Deadlock represented. He had nothing to do with any of this. To be honest, he had no idea why he had even bothered to watch the entire interaction. The deer he had caught earlier was still waiting for him, the fresh meat losing more and more of its properties the more he lingered far away. 

And yet, he waited. He didn't know what for, but what he got in return hadn't been it. 

"You done spyin', stranger, or do you also want a piece of me?" asked the man, his position unchanged from before. His eyes were far from the archer, but it was clear who he was talking to. 

Hanzo straightened his spine. He hated being caught. Out of misplaced confidence, he hadn't calculated his possibility. 

"I'm doing none of those things," he answered harshly, his voice sounding dry and irregular due to it hardly being used for months. 

The man lowered his gun, sensing Hanzo's reluctance to fight. Not by much, caution still present in his body language, but enough to show lack of desire for further violence. 

Good. Hanzo didn't feel like turning it into a brawl either. 

"Would've bet good money on the first, to be fair. Considerin' how long you stood there, hopin' not to stand out. But, to be bold with you, there's no fadin' in the background with a handsome face like yours. You can cover it in pain all you want, some things just can't be masked." He smirked at Hanzo, as if they were good friends and not strangers, meeting in one of the most vacant places in the world. As if it was socially acceptable to do so. 

"Speakin' from experience, of course," the man added immediately after, hoping maybe to get a reaction out of Hanzo. 

He could dream. 

"I doubt it," said Hanzo, leaving the element he questioned unclear. He didn't feel comfortable having such a conversation. He could speak of war and weaponry for hours, but when it came to casual and cheap flirtation, he had nothing to add. 

It wasn't as if the man meant anything by it anyway. 

The cigar in his mouth was almost finished by that time. Absently, he took it out and threw it on the ground, stepping on it with the heel of his boot. 

Without thinking, Hanzo found himself commenting on the gesture. 

"You can fight as many battles as you want and survive them all, but such a feeble thing might still be your undoing."

The man lifted his eyebrows in surprise, the gesture exaggerated. "Thanks for the concern. But I'm more than fine. No smoke can kill this young horse."

Hanzo didn't see the appeal of having someone call himself such a thing, and tried not to show it on his face. The amusement on the man's face told him he must've failed this task. 

"So... Stalking aside. Does your pretty face have a name? I ain't got a problem calling you Wolfie in my mind, but I'm sure you've got somethin' better to give me."

Hanzo could've lied. Could've said anything in the world and the man would've probably believed him. Any name would've worked, but Hanzo was tired. Tired of solitude, of running - from his past, his mistakes, himself even. He was starved for human connection, no matter how insignificant and temporary. Even if this man didn't matter. Even if they weren't going to ever meet again. 

With a deep sigh, he said it. 

"Hanzo." Once, the name meant something by itself. Now, it was the only part of his name he could stand. 

"Interestin' name for an interestin' guy. It fits real nice. No other surnames I should know of?" 

Hanzo closed his eyes. "None that matter anymore."

The man said nothing for a few moments. Something in his eyes told Hanzo that he understood enough not to question further. 

"I see. Well, Hanzo, I hope you got some medical skills in that arsenal of yous. Not for nothin', but I ain't sure how long I can't pretend that I'm not bleedin' like a dyin' bull."

Hanzo widened his eyes just as the man's smile dropped, turning instead into a pained grimace. His body language changed as well, going from a careless bend to an aching shape full of edges. He took a few steps forward, his legs less steady than they seemed before. 

Instinctively, Hanzo shot out an arm in his direction, barely reaching the man before the other's weight fell over him. 

"Easy," said Hanzo, unsure where to keep his arms to be of help and not do further damage. 

He hadn't touched anyone in a long time - not without the intent to harm or at least leave unconscious - and to have to do it with care and so openly with someone who he didn't know was a drastic change. One that made his upper body shake with nerves. He was surprised he didn't freeze completely. 

After all, despite those simple exchanges between the two of them, Hanzo couldn't help feeling like this proximity with someone had to be a trap, a tiny role the other had chosen to mess with his mind and get him to lower his guard. It wouldn't have been that surprising. He had seen him add that layer of bravado to his foes, who could tell if this wasn't another one, even more complex and confusing than the one before? 

He only had a few seconds to contemplate this possibility - moments in which his mind had been in overdrive - but as his guard kept going up, he stopped completely at the sight of his own fingers soaked in blood. Deep in color and thick, the liquid coloured Hanzo's hand, making him let a surprised sound escape his throat. 

It wouldn't have been visible on the dark shades of the man's clothes, but considering the amount it was leaking, Hanzo knew the man shouldn't have even been standing. Joking and flirting? How did he have the mental state for such trivial actions? The physical state wasn't even worth discussing at this point. 

Hanzo let out another guttural sound, close to a grunt, and tightened his hold on the stranger. He cursed his luck, the fact that he had overcomplicated his day, the deer that was rooting in the woods that he wouldn't be able to reach just yet. But he didn't let go. Didn't back off for a second. Used all of his strength to support this mountain of a man, displeased by the other's height and the smell of dirt and blood he was emitting and kept going. 

"Thank you, pal. I'll owe you one," said the man against his neck, his voice loud and clear, no strain to be heard, despite the pain he must've been through. 

Hanzo didn't question his ability to withstand suffering coursed by physical wounds after that. He only learned to accept that the man was a warrior through and through. He couldn't deny him that anymore. 

They didn't have to walk far. Only a few dozen meters separated them from a clearing in which Hanzo was confident they would both be able to rest. They would've been safe there - slightly isolated from any human interruptions while still not far enough into the forest to get the attention of an angered boar. 

Once they reached the place, Hanzo tried to gently place the other on the ground, but his lack of recent human experience made him underestimate his strength. The movement had been forceful, abrupt, disappointing. The other met the ground before any of them anticipated and, for the first time, actually groaned in pain. 

"Remind me to never let you carry a lady. Not sure her bones would've survived this fall." A dose of laughter ended his statement, trying to minimize the frustration Hanzo was feeling in that moment. They were both aware that was happening and yet, hearing the amusement and warmth in the other's voice, no matter if fake or real, helped him. 

"Shut up," retorted Hanzo, moving his head to the side, refusing to look at him. His cheeks were probably red from embarrassment as well, but thanks to the furs covering most of his body, it probably wasn't as visible as he feared. 

As the man lowered his body properly on the solid ground, his pants turning that pure black into a shameful shade of brown, definitely preferring a comfortable position over a pardonable attire, Hanzo laid down the travel bag he had carried. It had been cheap, thin and worthless - but the things inside had saved him many times. And now he hoped they would help this traveler. 

"Take it," he shouted and threw the first-aid kit at his feet. The man caught it mid-air and opened it immediately. 

"That'll do just fine, thank you," he said, inspecting the contents inside. "More than I could've expected from a common wolf, anyway."

He smiled at Hanzo. A huge curve, genuine, yet slightly teasing. The smile didn't fade instantly, only going away after he extracted the things he needed and started to take off some of his clothing. There were multiple layers, most of them intense in colour, each one hurting him more and more, the blood that had been barely noticeable before now pouring down his legs. It was painful to watch the grimace on his face and the constricted movement of his upper body - Hanzo didn't want to think how painful it must've been to feel all that. 

It had been years since his skin last tasted a bullet. And that wound had been shallow compared to what was in front of him. 

Hanzo didn't move to help. Despite the sounds of pain and the clear anguish in front of him, he didn't dare to offer his assistance. His face showed indifference, but the truth had been a different matter. 

He was afraid. Terrified of making one mistake, a slip, no matter how small, and make the situation worse. To turn the suffering of a warrior into pure agony. 

It wouldn't have been the first time. 

When the man reached his skin, all of his clothing now scattered at his feet, Hanzo dropped his eyes to the ground, trying in vain to look anywhere other than him. 

Tanned skin, muscular, covered in scars both thin and thick - that's how the man was presented in front of Hanzo. If the situation would've been different and life easier, Hanzo would've probably fled the scene immediately. But, considering the two bullet wounds deeply implanted in his shoulder, there was nothing easy about the way things were. 

He sat on the ground as well, took out his arrows and started to clean them in silence. Their breathing formed a rhythm after a while, a pattern only interrupted by one of the man's aching gasps. 

This type of help was the only one Hanzo knew he could provide without fear. This sort of companionship, a beating heart, an open mind, a non-judgmental soul to match the other. 

When the man stopped, his fingers crimson and eyes tired, Hanzo stood up without a word and brought him one of his clean changes of clothes. 

He didn't have much, but he could offer this. 

"Don't you need 'em?" came the question. 

"Not for now," answered Hanzo, his voice calm and, he hoped, encouraging. 

The man's smile returned, shyer than it had been before, but just as pleasing to watch. He took the clothes from Hanzo and, as he got dressed, the archer did his best to find enough wood to light up a fire. 

"Are you staying? I doubt you can walk in the state you are in for too long."

"Unless you decide to get rid of me, I'm committed to a long night of peaceful dreams in here." He moved closer to the fire, his limbs in desperate need of some warmth. "Only heavens know that I haven't had one in a long while. I can't even remember."

Hanzo nodded, the feeling way too familiar. 

"Then I should grab something to eat," he said, taking his bow and arrows with him as he made up his mind. "Try not to bring too much attention to yourself. This time I will not provide aid of any kind."

"No promises," was the lively answer he got in return. 

By the time he returned, his arms carrying the deer from before - still fresh enough to consume and untouched - he saw the other on his feet, arranging his black uniform into a decently-folded pile. His movements were slow and lacked elegance, but again, he shouldn't have been standing to begin with.

It wasn't Hanzo's job to comment on the lack of care the man had for his own body. So he asked instead something that's been troubling him for a while.

"Who are you? You asked for my name but you never bothered to give me yours."

The man took his time to answer. His hand instinctively moved to his pockets, searching for a cigar, but finding nothing.

"I'd rather not say. But I guess you're right." He lowered the hat slightly, a gesture he did before and seemed like a motion that brought him a dose of comfort. "Just call me McCree. Nobody gives a damn about the rest anyway."

As he finished his sentence, he lowered the hat even more, covering his eyes in the process. It was clear there was a story behind the statement, just like it had been when Hanzo offered his own name. It could've been anything - a bounty on his head, some family issue he refused to address, an old nickname he wanted to erase from his soul. The possible degrees of frustration varied, but the result was the same.

There was an issue there. One this man - McCree - wanted to discuss, but at the same time didn't. Once again, Hanzo understood it perfectly.

If Hanzo kept his last name hidden, it was only fair if McCree kept his first as well.

Maybe Hanzo was reading too much into this, but it didn't matter. He finally had a name for the stranger.

The rest of the night was spent in a pleasant silence, only interrupted by small talk. It wasn't the kind of dialogue that irritated Hanzo his entire childhood - the tiny 'It was my pleasure' and useless 'How was your day?'. It wasn't meant to be polite or hiding a different meaning under simple words.

It was effortless, clear, calming.

Hanzo had his guard down the entire time. Maybe he shouldn't have, but he regretted nothing. He missed having this. A conversation. Some connection with another soul. An hour or two in which his self-hatred stayed away, in which his past didn't haunt his every move.

McCree made living feel easy. Made it feel worth it, in a way that Hanzo questioned sometimes if it was possible. He laughed, and talked too much and too loudly and did more than just exist.

Hanzo wondered how that felt like. Especially when, examining the tiny glimpses into McCree's broken pieces he had managed to observe during his fight and later on, it was clear that he wasn't as nonchalant as we wanted to appear. 

He couldn't tell if this mask was meant to only deceive the ones around him or just himself. It still existed. 

McCree respected his privacy, staying away from asking questions that Hanzo wasn't ready to answer. He had no idea how he could tell, but was incredibly grateful nevertheless. 

Of course, he did the same.

They sated their hunger, observed the skies, and both wished for a manageable life, where such nights could be a constant possibility. 

Sleeping on the ground, covered by a thin material as a blanket, three feet apart, their backs facing each other, had been a luxury. 

Hanzo woke up only once, his slumber interrupted by McCree's resounding snores. 

His lips were curved upwards as he fell asleep again. He thought he had forgotten to do so. 

In the morning, they parted before sunrise and promised to meet again. None of them truly believed it, the world too big for two wondering souls so different to cross paths a second time, but they said the words anyway. 

Even Hanzo, who had ran from humanity for years, hoped that to be true. Some part of him longed to know more about this troubled warrior, to learn his story and hear more of the richness in his voice. 

The same richness he was going to hear years after, in a crowded market in Cairo. It was a sound that should've been lost among many others, but, surprisingly, Hanzo could perceive it with insane clarity. 

He stopped his legs from reacting the very next second. They wanted to move, to get to the source of that unmistakable tone, and just be there. 

Instead, he took his time to approach him, focusing his attention on both surroundings - looking for threats perhaps, anything to make the task last longer - and the man himself. 

It had been too long since they last saw each other. Anything could've happened. He needed to make sure the man was worth approaching after all. 

It was easy to find a place behind a booth and hide there, the difficult part being trying to remain unseen. He didn't need a repeat of his earlier performance, to be spotted right away and have all control taken out of his grasp. 

The first thing he noticed was the choice of clothing. Long gone was the black suit, eccentric through shape and number of layers. What came in its place ended up even more of a disaster. Metal armour covered his core, only partially shown due to possibly the worst wardrobe choice Hanzo has ever seen - a huge copper-coloured blanket that fell on top of his shoulders. Below, stood another statement piece - a golden belt, definitely made out of cheap material, that spelled a word that Hanzo's vocabulary could not recall. He remembered a belt in his past version of McCree, one with a skull, still intriguing, but somehow more subtle. 

There was no point on commenting on more than that. Not even on the ridiculousness of his hat. 

The beard on his face was more pronounced. Dryer as well, perhaps. 

From where he stood, Hanzo couldn't observe his facial expressions. His voice was loud, but didn't involve the same openness it had years before. Like he was trying to be polite and charming, but not free, nor familiar. His body language was difficult to read, the lines too vague to show anything specific, like he, himself, was uncertain of the follow-up of his actions. 

He was discussing a trade with the woman in front of him, which shouldn't have been a surprise, really, but the way they were going about it was unusual at best. Both had weapons in their hands despite their unhurried movements, both talked calmly about threats and wanted criminals and rewards. McCree seemed unbothered by her couch gun and icy tone. 

What made it even worse was that nobody else seemed intrigued by the entire image. As if it was an usual act. 

A frustrated 'Tsk' came from McCree. His left arm rose from underneath the blanket, extending it towards the woman, as if waiting for her to hand him something. 

Hanzo stopped breathing for a moment at the sight of the arm. 

"It can't be..." he whispered, taking in its unnatural texture, the silver alloy marking his entire field of vision. What used to be a muscular and tanned limb was now made entirely of metal. 

Hanzo had seen countless prosthetics during his years of travel and all had a horrific story behind, that sometimes kept him awake at night, when his usual nightmares stayed at bay. There was no denying the facts. No matter how much he hoped that to be some part of the man's costume. 

(Not that it wouldn't have been a fair assumption. The eccentricity of the entire clothing line made the metal arm seem like a norm, like a statement accessory instead of a tragedy.)

Gunshots interrupted his line of thought. With McCree so close, it didn't come as a surprise.

Nobody around them flinched. They just took a step back or made sure to move a bit further away from the ones involved. Some noticed Hanzo, but most still didn't, McCree included. He was too absorbed by his opponent and his task. 

When the lady took out a knife from her back pocket, despite knowing that McCree had the upper hand no matter her choice of weapon, Hanzo walked out of the shadows. 

Two arrows missed her face by less than half an inch, forming a parallel line with the ground. She gasped, dropping the knife, and looked for the source. All of her faces turned into a dreadful sneer when she spotted Hanzo. 

McCree followed her line of sight. His eyes crinkled at the sides when he saw him. 

"Always ready to save my ass, aren't you, partner?" His body angled towards Hanzo, a wide grin falling on his lips. 

"Someone has to," said Hanzo, his voice too serious compared to the ease he was experiencing. 

He didn't get to say more, neither did McCree. The woman took advantage of the moment of calmness to find another knife to replace the old one and, with a deafening scream, she threw it at McCree, her other hand trying to make work of her coach gun. 

McCree didn't hesitate. He evaded the blade and fired three quick bullets at her feet. It was enough to scare her. Hanzo didn't need to interfere further than that initial attack. 

Both men left the scene minutes after, a poster tightly folded and carelessly shoved in McCree's right boot. His human arm was wrapped around Hanzo's shoulders. 

The archer tried not to shy away from the gesture, still finding such a generous human touch to be too much, despite the passed years and the short but precious moments he had shared with the man. 

As they walked through the city, trying to escape its most crowded areas, they barely said a word. If it hadn't been for the warmth emitted by the other's body and the words they have exchanged, Hanzo would've taken that silence as a sign that he had made a mistake. That he hadn't been recognized and should've stayed in the shadows, as far as possible. 

McCree's head was lowered, the hat covering most of his forehead and a good portion of his eyes. From where he stood, Hanzo could still see them perfectly. 

They were hiding in plain sight. 

So they kept walking, McCree dragging him and Hanzo saying nothing to stop him. For some reason, he trusted the man to look after them both, to find some spot where they could change some words without any stress or fear of being recognized. 

It took them more than twenty minutes to reach such a place. They stopped and McCree finally put some distance between him and Hanzo. He sat on the ground, not caring if its sand-like texture ruined his pants or not. Hanzo leaned his back against the wall closest to McCree. He crossed his arms over his chest and waited. 

McCree didn't disappoint. 

"Wasn't expectin' you in such a crowded place, Hanzo. Did you get bored of the forest?" His tone was cheery, teasing as well, perhaps. His eyes, glued to the line of the horizon, were not. They seemed a bit lost. "Not that I'm not glad to see you. I am. I'm always glad for some good company."

"Thought it was time for a change," came his simplistic reply, unable to formulate something more complex due to his lack of understanding of the man's mood. 

McCree blinked at him, bringing his attention back to Hanzo. He must've noticed the uncertainty of tone, although Hanzo tried to make it sound as even as possible. 

"Hey, I'm not complainin'. You're still lookin' like a fine specimen, even without the furs." Then his voice took again that flirtatious tone Hanzo could remember perfectly. The unnerving grin resurfaced as well. "Should've guessed. Pretty faces like yours only get better with time." 

McCree found the worst person to try that strategy on. 

"What is with the arm? You did not have it the last time we met."

The dry chuckle Hanzo heard could almost be described as heartbreaking. 

"Going directly for the kill, aren't we? Old story. Wouldn't bore you with it."

How many times did he deflect the subject by choosing the same words? How many people believed this attitude, his desire to not say a thing even if something on the heavy lines of his face seemed to beg the exact opposite? 

"I am in no hurry. Nor do I have a specific destination to get to."

He met McCree's gaze head-on. The man swallowed with difficulty. 

"I'll need some liquor to discuss it. Something with a lot of bite." 

It wasn't a refusal. 

Hanzo remembered the sake he had carried for weeks, waiting for a good enough excuse to try it - to get a taste of what he used to call home. What better opportunity than this, to appreciate it with someone he thought of as almost a friend? Even if he could already tell the tale McCree wanted to share was going to be full of gruesome aspects. 

"That can be arranged," he said and took the out the bottle from the bag it was hanging from. It was made out of wood, painted blue on top, a few fine lines giving it an elegant design. 

"Fair enough."

McCree didn't react much to the offering. He didn't ask what was inside the bottle. 

He started talking as soon as the first sip touched his lips. His words had been pained, his pauses short and abrupt, as if he still saw the battleground he had been part of. As if he never truly left that place. 

The wound was fresh and the robotic arm unsteady, unused yet to its full potential. 

(Before, that arm had been covered in ink. McCree had joked of burning it, his dislike for the mark evident. There had to be some element of fate that lead to the said limb being the one punished. Hanzo was sure of it.)

The cause had been an omnic and yet, judging from the way McCree phrased his tale, he didn't blame them. Not the entire group. He didn't resort to that fanatic racism Hanzo had seen all over the world, despite having such a huge part of himself lost forever. 

And, from what he could tell, it wasn't even the first thing omnics had taken away from McCree. 

His eyes were wet without shedding a single tear, his wording turned harsh as he spoke about superiors and missions, past and present. 

It was the first conversation they had in years. And the truest. The most bitter and disturbing. 

Hanzo wanted to repress the unbecoming feeling that swallowed his chest. Wanted to shout at how wrong it was, how much of a monster he must've still been to be able to feel a trace of a thrill knowing that he was able to be part of this. That someone was pouring their hearts at him, despite them not knowing him fully. Not knowing what he had done. 

But he listened to McCree. Dread and self-hatred dangling with that dose of delight inside of him with every word, but he still had his soul open and heard every single tremble of the other's essence. 

The story lasted for more than half an hour, time in which Hanzo barely interrupted him. The sake stood finished at their feet, tiny rosy dots painting both of their cheeks. For Hanzo, it was clear that his resistance was not as it used to be, but McCree, since he drank most of it, those unmissable signs of tipsiness came as no surprise. 

Might've been too heavy of a topic to chose as a conversation starter, but judging from both of their backgrounds, it was expected. 

"Been talkin' a whole lot about myself regarding some pretty messed up stuff. Think it's you who should be sharin' from now on, Hanzo." 

He breathed out. "What do you want to know?" 

"What happened with that wolf costume would be a good start. I got attached." A piece of the old, charming smile returned, even if more fractured than it had been before, but still genuine. "I quite like this new style as well. Definitely diggin' the golden dragons," he added, his eyes moving mischievously over Hanzo's backside. 

Hanzo ignored him. 

"Burned it. It was not needed anymore."

"Because you realized livin' as a furry wasn't as excitin' as it seemed at first?" 

It was a childish thing to ask. Completely immature. However, it lightened the mood significantly, which Hanzo should've been grateful for. 

Instead, he narrowed his eyes. 

"Because I am done trying to be a wolf. Trying to deny my past. Running from it."

McCree interrupted his smile, noticing the harsh words Hanzo had chosen. 

"What was the reason for the wolf? It didn't feel like a random choice. Was there a thought behind it?" 

Hanzo contemplated his answer before opening his mouth. "The wolf is an animal born to be part of a pack. And yet, it is an image of solitude. It was a good symbol for my life's evolution." He cast his eyes to the side, knowing how strange his next words were going to be to a foreigner, someone who didn't comprehend his family's customs, but still needing to share them. "Before, I used to be a dragon. Prideful, greedy." He stopped, his lips curving downwards with distaste. "Foolish."

McCree didn't comment on his attitude. Instead, he asked: "Was your family somethin' important? That sounds real posh." 

"Still is," remarked Hanzo bitterly. "However, it does not deserve its importance." 

"Good thing you left them then."

"Indeed."

Another moment of silence passed between the two of them. 

"You seem to still cherish that dragon, though. The one on your pants," specified McCree. "What's with that?" 

"As I said, I am done running. One day I hope to be able to wear my country's customs and speak its language. To feel content wearing it, instead of hateful towards everything they represent." He paused before adding: "This is just the first step."

"If we had more ale, I would've drunk for that."

Hanzo raised his eyebrow at him. 

"I did not picture you as a man obsessed with alcohol, McCree."

The man laughed. "And I sure as hell didn't see you as one with piercings, yet here we are."

Hanzo lifted one of his hands to one of the areas in which he had his skin pierced, feeling for the first time in his life self-conscious about that decision. 

"Is there a problem with them?" 

"Absolutely none," said McCree with confidence. 

Hanzo still felt unsure. 

"I... They were a rebellious choice. Reckless. Completely spontaneous." He bit his lip, an uncharacteristic gesture, before adding: "It was the kind of thing my... brother would've done."

McCree blinked at him, noticing the choice of words. 

"You wanted to be closer to the guy, didn't you?" was the only thing he said. 

Hanzo nodded. 

"Yes," he said out loud as well, for good measure. 

"Interestin' way of doing it. But I suppose a few flowers weren't excitin' enough for someone who lived in the woods for who knows how long."

Hanzo didn't say anything. He wasn't going to mention his travels home each year to pay his respects. To mourn his past, his mistakes, the brother he had been too blind to appreciate and trust and fight for, instead of fighting with. 

He wasn't going to mention that to McCree. The discussion had been too open already and some wounds were not healed enough to even trace. And might never be. 

There was respect in McCree's eyes, interest and fascination that went a bit deeper than Hanzo wanted to look into just yet. He didn't want to lose any of that and he knew that was a good possibility if he dared to open that mouth and continue the subject. 

Hanzo lost too many people already due to that mistake - his brother, his family, himself. He refused to lose anyone else. 

Loneliness is a painful thing. Especially when it is something you deserve. 

"It's getting late," said Hanzo, noticing the already darkening sky. The sun was fading in the distance, hiding behind roofs and sand, ready to begin its slumber. It wouldn't have been long for the moon to show its golden face and mark the night. 

They have been standing still for hours. Nothing threatened them or tried to interrupt their discussion. 

Hanzo's knees were tired and had been hurting for a while already. He hadn't said a word, not wanting to put a stop to what they shared that afternoon. 

"Kind of is. My old bones are already longin' for some rest, to be honest." Hanzo wanted to comment how 'old bones' didn't apply to a man that was thirty at most, but he didn't get the chance when McCree asked: "Do you have a place to stay, Hanzo? If not, I've got a nice floor of an abandoned house to share. No beds, but again, there weren't that many in the woods anyway."

Hanzo stared at him for a few moments before making up his mind. "Lead the way."

And McCree did. 

Their bodies were close, bumping into each other from time to time. They walked for a while. It was closer to their initial location than the city centre had been, so they got there before the sky reached its darkest potential. 

McCree had been more reserved than minutes before, contemplating something. 

"Just wonderin'..." he started in the end, his tone lighter than Hanzo had expected. "Life's pretty uneventful for a bounty hunter. One gets lonely. And you seem like a decent guy, Hanzo. I wouldn't mind keepin' you around for a bit longer."

It was straight-forward. Too straight-forward. Almost scandalous considering how little they still knew about each other. 

(Even if more than Hanzo had ever thought they'd share.) 

He should've said no. Should've ignored the unnerving grin on McCree's face and turned around, saying that being this close to another human being was a mistake. 

Except that he didn't. 

"You might come to regret this proposal," was his answer. 

Such a calculated choice of words. From anyone else, it would've just been that - a safe option, one that needed more convincing. 

But from Hanzo? It was a completely different story. There was a certain wishfulness in his tone, a tiny sparkle in his dark eyes. They spoke volumes. 

McCree's smile widened. He must've noticed them too. "Doubt it."

However, there were still a few ground rules Hanzo wanted to point out. 

"I will not touch a gun," he said, his voice steady. McCree hadn't seen him in action much. Who knew what the man expected from him if it ever came to combat. 

"Wouldn't have asked you to." 

Spoken quickly with a lot of conviction. As if the idea never crossed his mind to begin with. 

"You will be the one providing food."

The second condition - truly moronic. Hanzo didn't know why he was asking for this. It didn't matter, not at all. Was he that desperate to keep the discussion going? Or was it the need to have someone want him, to wish to keep him around? Someone that wasn't looking at him just to use his skills and turn his hands into an even bloodier shade of red and craved his attention. His attitude. His words and maybe... Maybe even his warmth. If he still had that to offer and his body hadn't been turned by an icicle trying to mirror the glacier beatings of his heart. 

"As long as you can bring some more of that booze of yours, it can be arranged."

Just as plainly answered as the first. Just as refreshing and honest and high-spirited. Just as appreciated by the archer. 

More silence followed, the playful tone dissolving more and more and turning into an uncomfortable echo. 

"I would bore you on your journey," said Hanzo in the end, his footwear hitting the dry soil. His eyes were unfocused. He knew that wasn't the real problem, the one thing that made him question the sanity of this decision. 

Analyzing the look McCree had thrown his way - rich brown eyes full of depth and contemplation - he might've sensed this. 

"There's absolutely nothin' boring about you, partner." 

There had been truth in the statement. A truth that Hanzo had appreciated greatly. But not as much as he had appreciated the words hidden underneath. 

'Don't say anything you're not ready to share. We all have our demons. I get that.' 

McCree wasn't a saint either. Far from it. But, for him, or, to be exact, with him, Hanzo wanted to try to be something new. Something better. 

Someone that knew what being alive meant. What laughing, crying and hoping felt like. 

Someone for which the word forgiveness still existed and might one day be capable of earning. 

This was just the start. 

**Author's Note:**

> This still isn't perfect but I'll find time to edit it further in the future. I just loved them too much and needed to post it already. 
> 
> Any comment or thought would be greatly appreciated! Kudos as well.  
If you wanna chat and fangirl over those two sweethearts, you can find me on Tumblr as @hightress


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